


Empty Buckets, a tragedy in three acts

by snowpuppies



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-07
Updated: 2009-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur protects Merlin, the only way he knows how; the consequences reach farther than he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/221185.html).

He creeps through the forest under cover of night; the only light comes from the moon, filtering through the canopy overhead and illuminating the underbrush in irregular spots of pale light.

It takes nearly an hour of tramping down the vines and bushes that creep across the trail before he sees his destination: A wooden shelter, shrouded by trees and leafy green tendrils, almost invisible…

…if you're not looking for it.

 

He kneels at the door, leaning close to a small opening near the forest floor.

"Merlin, I brought you some food."

He receives no answer; he doesn't expect one.

Peeling away his glove, he traces the splintered woodwork, skirting the series of chains and bars holding the structure shut.

"I'm sorry, Merlin. But…I won't let you get yourself killed."

The padlock glints dully in the moonlight, glowing brightly enough that even he—non-magical as he is—can see the enchantment.

The sorcerer from whom he _liberated_ the lock guaranteed the charm would last for ten years without the proper counter spell.

 

It's been a year and three days.

 

Merlin stopped yelling to be let out after two months; he stopped speaking altogether after six.

 

But every week, the food rations are gone when he returns, and Arthur knows he's done the right thing as long as Merlin's alive.

 

"Merlin, I know… I wish…" Sighing, he slumps against the door, his head hitting the sturdy wood with a hollow thunk.

 

He wants nothing more than to tear the door down, to delve into the depths of the little shack and see Merlin's sheepish grin once more, to hear him babble about everything or anything or nothing, to smell the tang of sweat, the bitter aroma of herbs and chemicals…

…to press his lips against the soft skin beneath Merlin's ear, to feel the steady beat of Merlin's heart beneath his fingertips, to hear Merlin laugh, see him smile, feel him shudder in his arms…

But Merlin won't stop using magic, and Arthur simply cannot abide the thought of the executioner's axe meeting Merlin's long, smooth, tender neck…

…so he keeps his prisoner—hidden from the world—and he protects Merlin the only way he knows how.

 

Clenching his jaw, he lifts the trap door, pulling a bucket from the darkness and replacing it with the one he's carried from beyond the castle walls.

"Merlin—" he can't help pressing his palm against the door once more "—I'll be back next week."

Standing, he turns away from the shabby cottage, striding away quickly before he can change his mind, the bucket rattling softly against his side.

 

He has nine more years to go...

 

…and he'll measure them all in empty buckets.

 

 

 

_End Act One_


	2. Chapter 2

He strides forward through the brush, in full daylight this time, not sneaking, not creeping or hiding…

There's no reason to hide any more.

Grief and elation war in his breast as he hacks away at the vines and brambles in his way.

He crashes through the glen, the conquering hero and the grieving son, until he arrives at the dilapidated cottage, shabbier than he remembered, but inside…

…is the thing he holds most dear.

 

"Merlin!" he calls out, taking the last few steps at a run, crashing into the door, grin stretched wide across his face. "Merlin!" He drums against the graying wood; a flock of birds flaps away from a nearby tree, disgruntled caws drowning out his cries for a moment.

"It's safe now… My father… I'm the King, Merlin. I can keep you safe." He closes his eyes, savoring this moment, the moment he's waited for...

…for six years and twenty one days.

But the moment is here and there's no more reason to wait, so he reaches into his belt and pulls out the key to his heart.

He's shaking; it takes three tries to slip the key into the lock.

He gives it a turn.

 

Then another.

 

And another and another and another.

 

He watches, dismayed, as it twists around and around in the seemingly empty lock.

"It's not working. Merlin, it's not working." He pulls the key out, flipping it over and examining it for a flaw, a crack, a word of instruction, but it's flawless, just as it was six years ago when he placed it in his belt.

"Why isn't it working?"

The answer hits him like a ton of bricks: Magic.

Sliding to the ground, fallen leaves crunching beneath his knees, he barks out a laugh, a croaking half-sob that echoes in the stillness of the forest.

His father laughs at him from beyond the grave.

"Merlin, there's a spell. The lock is enchanted and I don't know…" _the counter spell_. He couldn't do it even if he did.

He stares at the key, disbelieving.

It can't be happening.

 

Suddenly, he jumps to his feet. Pulling the sword from his belt, he brings it down upon the lock; sparks fly at the clash of metal against metal. Again and again and again, he strikes at the lock, the door, the walls, but the shack—insubstantial as it looks—stands firm, not so much as a splinter falling from the structure.

The sword falls from his hands and he slumps to the ground, eyes closed, face in the dirt.

 

He's failed.

 

It will be four more years until he can see Merlin's face again, four years until he can feel Merlin's smooth skin against his own, four years until his can press his lips against Merlin's mouth…

Clenching his jaw, he climbs to his feet.

"I'll bring you some food, Merlin."

 

Four more years…

 

…and he'll wait, because he must.

 

 

_End Act Two_


	3. Chapter 3

Four years pass more quickly than he expects. Running a kingdom takes a lot of time, and—as well as he means—he simply isn't able to visit Merlin every week. So, after the threat of execution is over, he tells Morgana and Gwen what he's done.

Gwen didn't speak to him for two weeks.

Morgana still hasn't.

But in spite of their anger, both are pleased to visit when he cannot, although Merlin's silence unnerves Gwen entirely.

He can only imagine how much she babbles without someone to stop her.

 

And then finally, it's time.

The girls insist on coming—naturally—and so they set off, together, into the woods to retrieve what was lost.

Being a king has taught him patience, but he still breaks into a run as soon as he spots the shack. Laughing, he presses himself, full-bodied against the door, sighing—"Merlin"—against the scratchy wood.

He feels like a boy again; bouncing and vibrating with anticipation, he can barely retrieve the key from his belt, but he does, and it still fits the lock and he gives it a turn and the slightest _snick_ reaches his ears as the lock falls open and…

…he pauses.

He can't believe it's finally happening.

 

And then Morgana shoves him out of the way and throws the door open. He watches, breath stalled in his lungs, as she plunges into the darkness, calling Merlin's name.

"Merlin?" He edges closer. The heart thudding in his chest drowns out the rustle of leaves as Gwen moves closer, peering over his shoulder.

Morgana's cloak comes into view as she backs out of the cottage and…

 

He squints, blinded by whiteness.

Blinking, he focuses his gaze on the doorway, where…a very old man is standing.

His sword is in his hand before he can think, the tip pressing into the man's snowy white beard. "What have you done with Merlin?"

"Ah, Arthur," the man replies, voice tremulous with age, "I guess you don't recognize me anymore?"

"Recognize?" He steps closer, studying the heavily-lined features, the cracked lips, the bushy eyebrows, the sparkling eyes…

The tallest tower in Camelot crumbles onto his back as the realization strikes: "Merlin?"

"At your service, milord. I'm afraid the enchantments on the lock were many, and the years passed more quickly in…than out."

He knows there must be some mistake.

"But the food…there wasn't enough… How did you…?"

Merlin smiles and his eyes nearly disappear beneath folds of skin. "In spite of Uther's decrees, the forests surrounding Camelot have always been home to many creatures, both magical and non-magical. I have found many friends in my time here." Taking his first step from the cottage that was his prison for many years, Merlin stumbles; Gwen slips under his arm before Arthur can move.

He's stunned, shocked beyond belief. This isn't his Merlin. This can't be happening.

 

He can't have possibly squandered his lover's youth with his own stupidity.

 

But he has.

 

"Mmmm." Merlin sighs, smiling at Morgana, then Gwen, bookmarks underneath his feeble shoulders. "I'd forgotten how wonderful fresh air was."

Arthur feels dizzy, as if all the fresh air has been sucked from his lungs and into Merlin's.

If only it were so.

 

"Merlin?" He doesn't recognize his own voice; he sounds so…_lost_.

A wrinkled hand comes to rest on his shoulder as Merlin leans closer, and for just a moment, Arthur can see the young man he loved in that aged face.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, but some things cannot be undone, even with the aid of magic." The hand tightens, gently, and Merlin smiles again. "Come along, then. You've got a destiny to fulfill, and I've only days to help you fulfill it."

He gestures for Merlin and the girls to go ahead, lagging behind—still stunned—until Merlin's words finally make sense.

"Days?" He jogs to catch up.

Merlin pulls away from his support and staggers into Arthur's arms, his frail weight resting against Arthur's chest. The feeling is familiar, yet so strange, and Arthur places an arm around Merlin's waist, holding him close, once more.

"Yes, days. I'm afraid—Arthur, my love—that very soon, the bucket won't be empty."

Arthur buries his face in the nest of white hair, clutching Merlin so hard he thinks he hears the creak of bones. "I'll fix this," he mumbles into Merlin's neck. "I swear it."

Merlin merely smiles.

He smiles back, grimly; it doesn't matter if Merlin believes him, he'll fix his mistakes, he'll get back what he lost…

…because he cannot bear to fail.

 

Jaw set, eyes blazing with purpose, he guides his Merlin home to Camelot.

 

  
And in the doorway of the cottage, the last empty bucket sits, alone and abandoned, as night begins to fall.

 

 

_FIN._


End file.
